


c'est lui pour moi (moi pour lui dans la vie)

by makeitbetter



Series: y'know, on second thought, coffee would be perfection [1]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: M/M, a coffee shop au because i'm unoriginal, fuck 'em up yoko, linda isn't mentioned by name but you can tell who she is, yoko has more big dick energy than all of them tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 07:16:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20578613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makeitbetter/pseuds/makeitbetter
Summary: because you drink your coffee black and only black, and you’re a miserable bastard at the best of times, always searching for something but never quite being able to find it.//(or: it's a coffee shop au, i don't know what else there is to say)





	c'est lui pour moi (moi pour lui dans la vie)

**Author's Note:**

> ha ha this is ugly and i rewrote it five times, please take it away from me. also, being a barista is nowhere near as aesthetic as i tried to make it seem here, trust me. 
> 
> title is from [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0feNVUwQA8U) song.

drifting along and waiting for the right moment has worked for you so far in life.

it’s easy enough - you know how to push a few buttons on a coffee machine, and some people seem to (sort of) appreciate the bleak sense of humour that comes with the service, free of charge.

it might be the only reason yoko keeps you around, because you drink your coffee black and only black, and you’re a miserable bastard at the best of times, always searching for something but never quite being able to find it.

**/ **

it’s monday morning - early, far too early - and there’s a neon blue poster in the front window of plastic ono that’s appeared overnight.

“what’s all that about?” you ask when you manage to catch yoko behind the counter, and when she tells you that she wants to introduce live music nights as an _exhibition of creativity_, you pull a face. “sounds shit.”

yoko merely raises an eyebrow, because at this point it’s sort of tradition that you argue against any sort of change. “george thought it was a good idea.”

you glance at george - he’s sitting at the counter, nursing an extra hot cappuccino - and he shrugs like it’s nothing, even though getting him and yoko to agree on anything is a bloody miracle in itself.

yoko herself spends the rest of the morning dismissing your ever-growing list of complaints by saying that the whole point is to bring in more customers - the most important thing (her words), although you don’t really see how. the place is already full half the time as it is, the soft ambient lighting jarringly offset with the sound of people yelling their orders over the roar of the milk steamer that you’re glued to more often than not and the students from the nearby university that always come in, too loud and all over the place, leaving the tables in a mess and yoko stressed out beneath that unaffected demeanour of hers.

you’re too used to the hustle and bustle - in fact, you could do well enough without it, because there’s never enough time for it all to slow down.

well - most of the time, anyway.

on this specific monday, around three in the afternoon and half an hour before your shift ends, a blonde girl wanders towards the counter and orders two medium hot chocolates, and your gaze happens to follow her back to the table in the corner, to the bloke waiting for her, and when he glances up at the sound of her footsteps, his eyes slip past her and meet yours, and that hustle and bustle you’ve grown so used to slows, if only for a second.

he’s pretty - _more than pretty_ \- and that makes something warm flutter in your chest, long after he’s looked away.

he leaves an hour later, laughing with the blonde about something you’re too far away to overhear.

you’ll probably never see him again.

**/ **

“you owe me,” you tell yoko when she calls on thursday night and asks you to work the late shift at plastic ono the next day, because like hell are you letting her forget she’s robbing you of the evening you could’ve spent on the sofa watching _coronation street_ alone.

“yes, yes,” she replies, already distracted, three thoughts ahead of you as usual. “just make sure you’re here by six.”

“_six_? why the fuck is that?”

there’s no point to the question, really - you both know why she wants you there.

it’s how you find yourself stood behind the counter of plastic ono with yoko, still at work on a friday night (not that you had any other plans, but it’s the principle of things), listening to the current live band that’s playing to the grand total of about thirty people. they’re absolute shit, in your humble opinion - the band you’d tried to start with stuart and pete in pete’s garage a few summers ago had been better than this.

a sharp elbow digs into your side. “would it kill you to cheer up a little bit?”

“yes,” you say, without a beat. yoko rolls her eyes, but the twitch at the corner of her mouth tells you she’s trying not to laugh, and that’s a small victory in itself.

“it’s not all bad,” george chimes in, leaning against the counter and sipping his iced coffee. he’s brought company this time around - ringo, who pitches in comments about the quality of the band’s drumming every now and then, and clutches the mocha yoko made for him like someone’s going to try and take it away if he lets go for too long. “my best mate from school is playing tonight. he’s pretty good.”

“hm,” is all you say in reply, because the evidence in front of you isn’t giving you much hope of that. so much for _exhibition of creativity_.

you’re about to turn away towards the coffee machine, unimpressed and searching for a hit of caffeine to get you through whatever is assaulting your ears next, when suddenly george is all but throwing himself over the counter to get your attention, and you realise that what’s assaulting your ears next is the same bloke from the other day, clutching a guitar this time around.

he’s just as pretty as you remember - maybe even prettier, if that’s possible - and from this better angle his face reminds you a little of a young elvis.

when he starts playing, voice soaring and fingers flying across the strings of his guitar, everyone stops to listen, and that fluttering in your chest is back, stronger than before.

almost like he can sense it, george turns to glance at you. “good, eh?”

you shrug, trying to remain nonchalant but not sure who you’re trying to convince. “he’s alright.”

george just smiles like he knows the truth.

**/ **

george’s mate from school, you later find out, is called _paul_.

you end up learning this by accident, even though you’ve spent the past week and a half trying to find a way to ask george for his name without drawing attention to it. it is, in fact, the familiar blonde girl that provides the answer, strolling up to the counter whilst calling_ you want anything, paul?_ over her shoulder.

(you still can’t tell if they’re seeing each other or not, and you don’t know which one you hope it is.)

it’s not helping matters that _paul_ seems to get more attractive every time you see him, or that you’re cleaning a nearby table that afternoon and you swear, you _swear_, you hear the blonde whispering _do it_ from behind her mug of tea as you walk past, paul’s face dusted with red in your peripheral vision, or that you’re at the coffee machine later on when yoko taps you on the shoulder with a knowing smirk on her face.

“he’s staring at you,” she says. “george’s friend, over in the corner.”

“why?”

“what am i, a mind reader?” she rolls her eyes, dropping a mug in the sink.

(you raise an eyebrow at that, muttering under your breath, because yoko always seems to have an uncanny ability to be able to read minds at all the wrong times - or maybe it’s just you that’s been cursed with that.)

**/ **

it’s nine in the morning on a thursday, and you’re balancing on a step ladder because yoko’s got you stringing fairy lights up above the door like you’re a fucking handyman rather than a barista, when -

“hi.”

because dignity has well and truly left you today, you miss your footing on the ladder and nearly topple backwards; it’s only the arm that comes to wrap around your waist that stops you from landing on your arse and making even more of a fool out of yourself.

it’s paul - because _of course it is_, that’s just your luck - up close and in person, that elvis smile of his finally aimed in your direction.

“hi,” you say back, instead of _thank you_ like you should be saying, and the smile only widens.

paul takes george’s usual seat at the counter, fingers wrapped around a mismatched mug of iced tea, and watches as you serve customers, talking to you about everything and nothing for hours on end, pretending not to notice the triumphant looks that yoko is throwing over from across the shop (the mind reading thing, there it is again.)

you really don’t know how you’re supposed to say goodbye when he inevitably has to leave, but the phone number he slides across the table, scrawled on a stray napkin, means you might not have to.


End file.
